


Everytime We Touch

by bellexreve



Category: Die Insel der Stürme - Heide Solveig Göttner
Genre: F/M, Pre-Canon, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-15 07:20:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16058270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellexreve/pseuds/bellexreve
Summary: Amra/Gorun is a fucking OTP and if I have to sail this nutshell alone because I made the mistake of reading a german triology then so be itslight spoilers for the first two books, for example Gorun thinking of Amra as "Beautiful" or "Wise"Repeatedlytitle is taken from the song that defined our generation





	Everytime We Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Amra/Gorun is a fucking OTP and if I have to sail this nutshell alone because I made the mistake of reading a german triology then so be it
> 
> slight spoilers for the first two books, for example Gorun thinking of Amra as "Beautiful" or "Wise"  
> Repeatedly
> 
> title is taken from the song that defined our generation

„You should go see Draura.”

Gorun looked up from loosening Sraxi’s saddle. Falrau had come to stand beside him, watching intently with his dark, dark eyes. “I’m fine”, Gorun said, destroying all his reassuranced the moment he lifted the saddle up and couldn’t hide the wince. The cut on his bicep was a bright spot of pain.

Falrau’s scowl deepened. “Your entire arm is bright red.”

“It’s going to be healed by-”

Gorun had to bite back a curse when Falrau poked near the wound, nearly dropping the saddle. Just as quick as he had touched him, Falrau pulled his hand away and wrangled the saddle from him. “Go see Draura before I drag you there”, he commanded. The look on his face left no room for refusal.

“I’m going, I’m going!” Gorun threw his hands up in defeat before aborting the motion when it pulled painfully.

It had been a stupid mistake- a golden glint in his peripheral distracting him enough for Khani to get a hit in during yesterday’s training. Sent to another city to be apprentice under the First Rider, he thought, came back making the same rookie mistakes.

The city was almost quiet now that the sun had reached its peak and there was only little shade to hide in. Even the children with their dogs following their every step weren’t as energetic as usual,sitting in the alleys between the houses, napping until the midday heat had passed. Somehow it seemed even quieter when he reached the old hut nestled against the western wall.

He stopped in front of it, taking in the mat covering the entrance, the plants he could make out behind it. Gorun wouldn’t consider himself a shy man (he was quite the opposite) but somehow the sight of their old healer’s home made him want to turn on his heels and leave before anyone noticed him.

The choice was taken out of his hands when Amra lifted the mat, amber eyes finding his in an instant. “Gorun”, she greeted. The midday sun lit up her hair in gold when she stepped outside. “Is something wrong?” Her Taú brushed against his, open and familiar.

Gorun had to keep himself in check not to shuffle his feet. “If it’s not too much trouble, could you take a look at my arm? There’s a nick that’s giving me some trouble.”

It was always a challenge to hide the right amount of his Taú in these moment- when Amra invited him in, carefully avoiding all touch, but still close enough he could feel the slight breeze her heavy skirts created. Even if closing one’s Taú was _rude,_ Gorun didn’t think Amra would appreciate sensing the fluttering of his nerves or the careful concentration it took not to stare.

Draura sat on a mat, old fingers still expertly plucking leaves from stems spread out in front of her while she watched them enter.

Gorun inclined his head. “Good day, Draura.”

She nodded. “Gorun. Still as fiery and stubborn as one of your clan’s horses, I see.”

It was hard not to bristle at the jab. As a Laîren of Caláxi, Draura of course knew everyone, but all the times he had to see her in his youth were mostly the fault of his insatiable need for adventure. Gorun settled for a hum and settled on the pillow Amra indicated.

His hands didn’t shake when he divested himself of his shirt, though he couldn’t help but wince when the motion pulled at the cut.

Amra ghosted her fingers across his arm (and Gorun had to clampdown on the almost guilty rush that went through him at the touch) before stepping away to search her supplies. The hut was old and dusty, filled with the smell of herbs that Goru couldn’t name but knew could help with all kinds of ailments. It was a stark contrast to the big clan houses and yet Amra navigated with ease.

“Hold out your arm”, she instructed as she sank to her knees next to him. The feeling of cold water sliding down the skin of his arm was incredibly soothing and only now Gorun allowed himself to admit that Falrau had been right.

In the matter of a few minutes, Amra put some salve on the cut and wound a strip of clean linen around it, pulling it just this side of tight. “I’ll give you some ointment to use when you change the wrapping. If it doesn’t heal properly or start shoving signs of infection, please come by and I will take another look.”

“Of course. Thank you, Amra.”

The smile Amra gave him was almost enough to make him forget all about Draura’s presence and when his eyes snapped back towards her, she grinned, all teeth. Gorun _prayed_ to the goods that Amra hadn’t noticed.

“Have a nice day Amra. Draura”, Gorun said, once again standing on the doorstep. Amra stood just inside, the sun shining even more brilliantly on the strands of gold it could reach. She was still smiling.

“A good day to you, too, Gorun”, she answered.

It was hard not to look back when he felt her watching him leave. It was harder still not to turn back and find out if the rest of her skin was as soft as her fingertips.

* * *

 

Defágos was large, much larger than Caláxi. Nine towers that could be seen far and wide, as daring as her name. Gorun had been overwhelmed when he first arrived, a boy of barely fourteen. None of his family or friends were there and the town was too close to Nraurn territory to explore the outside.

Lavira, the niece of First Rider Matris, of the house Sa Tidra, was enough to show him around in the evenings, always ready to mediate between him and the other boys. Her Taú was clear and mellow, as refreshing as the water the towers protected. Matris admitted that it was a shame that his niece hadn’t been born into a clan with the gift of the open Taú- she would have make an excellent priestess. Even as Gorun became more involved in his studies, he still searched her company, for advice or just because.

After the festival to celebrate the arrival of summer, they stumbled home together, tipsy on wine the other apprentices had swiped and giggling at the silliest things. Lavira leaned heavily on him, sandals dragging over the stone. “Did you see Kifra?”, she mumbled. “I think she was disappointed that you didn’t dance with her.”

Gorun snorted, loud in the night now that the sounds of the festival were fading. “She would have been more disappointed if I had danced with her.”

Tipping her head back, Lavira stared at him with large brown eyes, the effect aided by the alcohol. “Did you just admit to _not_ knowing how to do something?”

“It’s not like anyone would believe you.”

She fell back against his shoulder with a giggle, nearly tipping them both over.

There were no lights visible when they arrived at her clan house and for a moment, Gorun felt reminded of all the times Falrau and he had sneaked around with the others. The twinge of homesickness was almost familiar by now. “Think you gonna get in trouble for sneaking in?”

“I could have gotten in more trouble”, Lavira answered with a shrug.

They stared at each other and for a moment, Gorun remembered amber eyes staring at him from a curtain of golden curls. Then the moment was over and there Lavira was, with her dark hair and countless freckles.

“Don’t tell your uncle I helped you”, Gorun blurted. “Or he might rip my head off.”

Lavira laughed, stumbling towards the doorway. “Don’t let him catch you then.”

After that Gorun worked hard to be able to go home soon. He made sure none of his interactions with Lavira, or any other woman of Defágos could be takes as anything but friendly. When the other boys talked about beauty, he didn’t reveal names, but couldn’t help describing Kedra’s beautiful daughters (and the one whose company he missed the most.)

Finally at nineteen he had been taught everything Natris knew and had been allowed to return to Caláxi, to his family and friends, to the streets he had grown up in and loved.

The person he had dreamed of in the dead of night.

When Gorun returned after five years, Amra had already become a Laîren. Untouchable.

* * *

 

Another two years later, a man from the north brought a lost child to Caláxi and Gorun failed his duties as the First Rider.

* * *

 

“They turned away from him”, Amra whispered, something soft and wistful in her voice. It was the same tone from back when the were children, when she told him about the reaction his antics had caused.

Antics she hadn’t been allowed.

Gorun couldn’t imagine turning his back on Nemnos, whom he had _chosen_ with the kind of fervency that only came with knowing something was right. But then, he had never though it possible for someone to cross the Scyé, or for Caláxi to fall. For a priestess of the spring to heal instead of turning away at the slightest sign of illness.

Gorun _ached_ everywhere and Amra’s cool hands rubbing salve into his sunburnt skin were heavenly. Still, he held himself straight, as rigid as the masked guards. “You don’t owe him anything”, he found himself saying. “Especially not after this.”

Amra kept silent, but her hands were trembling a little. The skin around her eyes looked bruised and borrowed clothes seemed to swallow her. All in all, she looked tired and drawn after three days of fasting with no sleep and the hardships preceding it.

It was not a conscious decision to move. One moment Gorun was thinking about asking Amra’s opinion on how Jemren was doing, the next he was holding Amra’s hands in his, trying to study them in the light of the single candle illuminating the room. Next to him Amra went very, very still.

“Gorun”, she whispered. “What are you doing?”

“You’re hurt”, he answered because _what was he doing indeed._

There were cracks running along Amra’s knuckles, already scabbed over, the edges of her nails sharp and jagged. “It’s nothing.” Amra cleared her throat. “You should let go now.”

“You’re allowed to touch the wounded.” Gorun met her eyes then, as stupid and challenging as he had ever been. It was no use trying to his his Taú anyway.

“That doesn’t mean you should touch me.” It was probably meant to be a reproach- it was certainly phrased like one- but instead Amra sounded breathless. She didn’t pull her hands away.

Sometimes when Gorun had felt especially selfish, he had wished Amra to be a little less stubborn and for Kedra to succeed in making her daughter a priestess. Endless days of silence behind a mask, of hours in full armor with the sun beating down seemed worth it for the chance of Amra’s companionship within the walls of the central tower.

This felt very much like those times.

Amra’s taú was trembling, the way her hands weren’t anymore. Her eyes were impossibly wide, impossibly _dark,_ framed by her golden hair. The most beautiful daughter of house Sa Kedra. The most beautiful woman walking the Isle.

Gorun leaned forward and Amra, out of his reach for so long, met him halfway.


End file.
